My companions and I darkened the door of Drury Street’s latest arrival, the Rag Trader, at about 6pm on Friday – peak after-work drinking time – a fact reflected in the throngs milling about the relatively slim entrance way. As we worked our way through bustling business-casual attired assemblage, the reality of our situation was quickly made apparent as we ventured closer to the assumed back wall of the bar only to realize that there was no such barrier, the “back” of The Rag Trader fed directly into South William Street’s Dakota. Advertised as a “sister pub” to the long-established cocktail haunt, The Rag Trader is more an auxiliary set of taps that have been afforded their own stylised rebranding campaign more than anything else. There is no door separating the two supposedly independent entities, moving between the pair is utterly seamless, they even share a bathroom. Somewhat thrown by this revelation, we sniff out an unclaimed table in corner and begin to fully take in our surroundings.
The first thing that strikes you is that the entire place is made out of drawers. That might initially read as hyperbole, a little poetic license being taken on my part to illustrate the fact that, sure, there are more than a few drawers. But no such luck. Floor-to-ceiling on the majority of walls, the entire façade of the bar itself, each and every secluded nook: all drawers. This striking interior design move was obviously conceived with a nod towards eliciting a relationship between location’s current incarnation and the haberdashers that would have occupied this space in the past, an attempt at legitimising the same waistcoats and pipe-smoke, Dr. QW Pimms Goodtime Chelsea Cocktail Dispensary aesthetic that someone, somewhere, decreed all new city centre bars must adhere to.
On collecting a round of Guinness (€5.30 a pop) from the bar, one of my companions was struck by a brown suede, doorway sized curtain hanging against perhaps the only stretch of wall space not covered in lacquered wood and brass handles. His imagination was immediately captured, he’s an inquisitive sort. What could behind it? More drawers? Only one way to find out. As we were leaving he could resist his Poiroitesque impulses no longer and discreetly pulled the drape aside. Fittingly, the thick draping concealed but a blank wall, an attempt to conceal an absence of character, charm, or anything at all with a veneer of sophistication drawn from an imagined past.
The Rag Trader
39 Drury Street, Dublin 2
01-6727696
Words: Danny Wilson
Photos: Killian Broderick
